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[Devery]

Only When It’s Time


expectancies hover
ere the binding
of time’s slivers

mountains of barely ragged
 mouths assigned to parts
tomorrow when the cog
slips and squeaking
meadows climb

the resilience of grasses
folding sand the cloistered
barometer winds barren
clocks at the temerity
of the sea







Black Bat - welcome - and write more.

[88BlackBat88]

Black Bat - welcome - and write more.

Thank you. I figured I should post something considering I've kinda been stalking this thread for a while.

[Musings]

Black Bat,

I swear I had a tab open with a response to your poem and a wish to pretend that we were stuck in Poetry Month somewhere before that last poem of mine but it disappeared into the ether.

Anyway, I second Devery's welcome!  You did some really interesting things with repetition of sounds and natural imagery in that first poem of yours.
------------------------------------

I know way too many
armchair revolutionaries,
punk ass Ghandis,
and lazy wordsmith activists.

When did the representation
of self by an icon become
the icon to which
we uphold ourselves to,
the Bono, if you will,
of the present day?

When did pressing Like
on a facebook post
balance the scales
with wearing
an armband as
you walked in a protest?

I've got nothing more to say,
really.  But I'm a
Renaissance forum poet,
a Master of internet artistry,
so listen, will you.

[Devery]

A re-write of the one I posted above:




When It's Time


expectencies hover
in cold tidal lining
ere the binding
of time’s abundant
slivers

where stones are laid out
treasures like chiseled 
baby moons 
before the sweeping walls
encircle them
the measured triumph
barely looms

fine and ragged mouths assigned
their dull and grainy parts
tomorrow when the cog
slips and squeaking
meadows climb

the resilience of grasses
folding sand the cloistered
barometer atop the
sealed-off quarry
winding barren clocks forward
at the temerity of the sea

[Rob]

I will name my folk punk band "Punk Ass Ghandis"

I already have an acapella black metal band called "Papal Tapestry"

You should join at least one of them.

[88BlackBat88]

Black Bat,

I swear I had a tab open with a response to your poem and a wish to pretend that we were stuck in Poetry Month somewhere before that last poem of mine but it disappeared into the ether.

Anyway, I second Devery's welcome!  You did some really interesting things with repetition of sounds and natural imagery in that first poem of yours.

Thank you! I really like your poetry. I really like everyone's poetry, actually. I haven't seen any bad ones during the times I've scrolled through this thread.
-------------------
Just to participate a little more instead of just making "thanks" posts, here's the other poem I wrote on the 30th. It's not that great, but I still kinda like it.


Lana

Lana tied knots in her hair.
Lana tied tongues with the slayer.
Lana was in some deep shit.
Lana was entirely sick of it.
Lana lost her heart yesterday.
Lana lost hope when he was away.
Lana kept the ring on her hand.
Lana kept herself with the man.
Lana was finally slain.
Lana was never given a grave.
Lana died a terrible death.
Lana died struggling her last breath.
Lana never got to cry,
because
Lana never was actually alive.

[Cheddars Cousin]

How Now?

Milk and Butter;
My Brothers
from another udder.

We three all
seem so different now
I can't believe
We came from the same cow.

[88BlackBat88]

I wrote a poem last hour. I apologize for all of these unedited poems. I just feel like sharing.
----------------

Theatre Girl

Poor little girl with curls upon her head,
how I wish, oh, how I wish. I wish that you were dead.
Was it not the thieves that caused you all this pain?
I guess it was me all along 'cause I'm the one you blame.
Lay your sorrowed head down to sleep tonight
and may you never wake and never see the light.
Whorish little child with nothing left to lose,
I'm afraid that I am not the one who had to choose
life or death for you. My friend, you are nothing but
a Devil's spawn, or Satan's doll. You'll never make the cut.

[Rob]

(I Was) Getting Ready (to Miss You)

You hadn’t left yet.
In fact,
you were never
really
going to leave.

Still,
I began to hate
this love forsaken place.
In fact,
I wouldn’t even
really
care for you pretty soon.

Still,
we could’ve made a
life of it,
if just one of us
ever,
really,
tried.

Still,
I didn’t place the blame
honestly,
anywhere at all;
or do anything else
honestly,
really,
while
I was getting ready to miss you.